


seven colors (of heaven)

by itachitachi



Series: Summer Pornathon '12 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (hints of) Asexual Arthur, Artist Merlin, Bottom Merlin, Color/Paint/Wax-play, Crossdressing Kink, M/M, Microfic, Mild Kink, Multi, Sex on the Beach, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itachitachi/pseuds/itachitachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art school and hands-on experience, both, have taught Merlin—student of art and world-class lover—that there are several very easy routes to happiness. As happiness is the first step to perfection, this is ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seven colors (of heaven)

**Author's Note:**

> For Pthon 2012 week 1: Image prompts. Unfortunately the post of images appears to have disappeared. :( Hopefully the fic is interesting enough on its own!

Art school and hands-on experience, both, have taught Merlin—student of art and world-class lover—that there are several very easy routes to happiness. As happiness is the first step to perfection, this is ideal.

**1\. Lines**

It's an accident and a blessing, really. It's the beginning.

"Oh god!" Freya says. "I haven't hurt you, have I?"

Merlin peers back at the dark scratches down his shoulder and says, "Not really. It's fine."

What that actually turns out to mean is, _do you want to do it again, maybe?_

**2\. Shading**

"You're crazy, mate," Gwaine says smearing the paint across Merlin's collarbones with his thumb. "Stay still. You do know this stuff will be stuck in your cracks for ages?"

"I know," Merlin says, admiring his hands. One is pale and one shimmers black.

Gwaine says nothing for a minute, but then grips Merlin by the jaw. "Fuck me if it isn't hot on you though," he says, and kisses Merlin thoroughly.

**3\. Color**

"I can't tell if you're really a masochist or just an artist," Morgana says idly, a different colored candle in each hand.

"All good artists are a bit of both," Merlin says into his folded arms—and then shudders, moaning as a wash of burning heat dribbles down the small of his back.

"That was the orange," Morgana tells him.

"I liked that one," Merlin mumbles, the inside of his head all fuzzy.

**4\. Starting over**

"You're sure you're okay?" Lancelot asks, manhandling Merlin into the shower. Merlin has red rope burns on both wrists and under his arms, and his arse is deliciously sore. He's higher than a kite, and melts into Lancelot's arms the instant they are both under the spray.

"Merlin?" Lancelot asks again, but Merlin just hums and kisses him, lush. Lancelot kisses him back, and it's so wonderful that Merlin can't help but laugh, first into Lancelot's open mouth and then into the bright, steamy air.

**5\. Freedom**

"Just like that," Arthur says. "Yes—there!"

Merlin lets his arms dangle above his head. The breeze is wonderful on his skin. Arthur's shutter clicks. Merlin smiles, and it clicks again.

**6\. The right clothes**

"I want to see you in them," Mithian says. Her ankles cross demurely, but in the grey suit trousers she still looks casually powerful. "Do put them on."

Flushing, Merlin adjusts himself in the lace knickers. Mithian's eyes gleam like a wolf's, he imagines. He almost wishes the knickers were red.

Carefully, he bends and presses his toes into the bunched up opening of the stocking. He aligns the seam with great care, sliding the nylon up his legs.

He always wants to be perfect. This, like everything, is art.

**7\. Chaos**

The feeling of six hands on your body is one that everyone should experience, Merlin thinks with what remains of his brain. He is furiously, achingly hard and will have sand in everything by the time this is through, but he has never cared much about such things.

"Off," Gwaine grits, tugging at Merlin's briefs, and then they slide away, and are gone as if they've never been. All four of them are naked in the beach light, and Elyan's mouth is first on Merlin's cock, hot and subtle and smooth, before he realizes it.

"Oh god, god," Merlin pants, wrenching at Percival's grip on his wrists. He is perfectly immovable, just as Merlin likes it, so he struggles as hard as he can, imagining the flex of his muscles and of Percival's, counterbalanced.

His arse takes two cocks and five fingers, and his mouth takes kisses, kisses.

The trails in the sand afterward—the major goal of this exercise—are almost inconsequential. Merlin rests his head on Elyan's lap afterward, feeling fingers card through his hair, and studies them. There, Percival's knees where he'd been bracing himself. There, Merlin's feet, in two long, deep furrows. There, a palmprint—Merlin can't tell whose.

"Shall I take a picture?" Gwaine asks. He pads around the wreck of sand, making a perimeter of footprints.

"No," Merlin says. He has memory enough. "The beach can keep it."


End file.
